


How it Ends - a Mockingjay, Part 2 idea

by ealamusings



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:25:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealamusings/pseuds/ealamusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of Mockingjay, Katniss and Peeta return to D12, and in time 'grow back together.' This is one possible idea of how that may be depicted in the movie when Mockingjay, Part 2 is released.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How it Ends - a Mockingjay, Part 2 idea

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a lot lately since I saw Part 1 of the Mockingjay movie, about how the film makers will portray the final scenes of Part 2. The author left this portion of the story open to the imagination! I posted a challenge on tumblr to anyone else who was interested to share their ideas in the form of a drabble. This is different from other Everlark fan fiction stories in that it's a prediction of how the story will unfold on film. We know it can not be long in duration (as much as that pains me!), so likely a scene that can play out in around 5 minutes, give or take.
> 
> The possibilities are endless on how they might depict Katniss and Peeta's return to D12, and to each other. Here is one idea that I had, though it's not the only one I can imagine! I did not include the Epilogue, even though that is crucial to me as well - I just decided to focus on those last few paragraphs of Chapter 27 and on how Katniss and Peeta 'grow back together.'
> 
> I hope you enjoy this version, and I'll be waiting anxiously for next November to see how the film makers actually portray this amazing moment of the story.
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters and their story are inspired by Suzanne Collins and her wonderful trilogy "The Hunger Games." I also am grateful to Francis Lawrence and his team for doing such a faithful job of bringing this story to the screen. Both of these sources serve as an inspiration for my story.

I’m choking! I can’t breathe as the dirt and ashes smother me. But even worse than this, is the bitterness and accusatory expressions on the faces of those who pile shovelful upon shovelful on top me. After all, I know from experience that the sting of hate and abandonment hurts more than choking.

Just as the last shovelful of ash covers my eyes, I lurch back into dim light. And I realize I’m on my couch, in my empty home, the curtains drawn tightly against the daylight that insists on peaking around the edges. But the sound continues, persistent, digging into my brain. Make it stop! I scream inside my head as I press my hands over my ears. But it’s no use.

Anger finally motivates me to action. When all else fails it has been the thing that could make me move when despair hobbled me. Well, one of the things anyway, but that other part of my life is over. My loved ones have all gone. It’s anger or capitulation now. And death would be so much easier than anger. I’m just too tired for anger, but maybe just this one last time to rage at the infuriating sound, accusing me. One more small act of defiance before the end.

I rush out the door, around the corner and the bright morning light makes me squint, but then I see him. The source of the sound that is the first thing to drive me out of my cocoon of a house in all the weeks since I was deposited here. I’m not sure but I think I gasp for breath. But it’s not the sudden exertion after months of lethargy that’s the cause. It’s the person on the end of the shovel.

"You’re back," I say. And in that moment I learn everything I need to know. The shrubs for Prim, the reminder that I’ve got to stop shutting out the help offered to me, the eyes that are no longer clouded with suspicion and insanity, and…

And I know now what it is that I’ve been waiting for. I’m suddenly aware of my pathetic physical state and with a quick nod I rush back into the house, stumbling up the stairs, desperate to grasp this moment of light before it gets away.

Dirty clothing discarded along with dead roses, body scrubbed and hair untangled and back in a reasonable facsimile of a braid, I walk outside. I’m dressed for the spring weather in my father’s leather jacket, bow and quiver in hand. But I detour through the remains of the Victor’s Village before heading to the forest. I see Peeta pulling out some weeds in front of Haymitch’s stoop.

"Is this where you spent last night?" I ask, and he nods and tells me he doubts Haymitch even noticed since he hasn’t woken up from his drunken stupor the entire time.  
“Going hunting,” he says rather than asks. He sounds tired, too.  
I nod, since it takes energy to speak, but I muster enough breath to invite him to come over for dinner later. I’ll supply the game if he’ll bring the bread. I think he might have even smiled a little, but I feel an urgency to get out to the woods, and reconnect with a life I thought was gone.

I return home, exhausted but daring to admit some satisfaction when I see him, hissing, hurting, ragged. I know how he feels.  
“She’s gone you stupid cat!” I hiss back, and the despair hits hard.  
All I know after that is feeling arms pulling me up from the floor, a hand touching my face, swollen and damp. And I see the sadness in Peeta’s eyes that reflects my own, and I just want it all to go away so desperately!

I fling my arms around his neck, my lungs feel like they are filling with ashes again.  
“Please don’t go, promise me you’ll never leave!”  
“I’m not going anywhere,” he answers softly, but I think there is a hint of pain in his voice, and I can’t help believe that it’s my fault. Just like everything else. Who am I to ask for anything? And especially from him, after what was done because of me.

But it feels so warm and comforting, that I allow myself to be selfish and sigh into his neck, refusing to let him go.

When I awake, it’s late… Or maybe early. It’s dark out and I rest quietly on the couch, a blanket wrapped around me. A panic wells up when I realize I am alone.  
“Peeta!” All I can think is that he promised he’d stay, and it’s as if it was all just a dream, like before. But then I see him slumped in the arm chair next to me. He opens his eyes that have the dark circles under them that are so much like my own.  
He leans over and touches my arm. “I’m still here,” he says softly. I allow a small smile of relief. It feels odd, the muscles haven’t had much use for such a long time.

We start to live again, in tiny steps. Haymitch finally wakes from his fog and even he seems to find new purpose with having Peeta back. I’m vaguely aware of the spring warming into summer, reminded by the maturing of the plants in the vegetable garden that Peeta tends.

As I slip Buttercup a treat, I carefully place the photo of Annie’s baby boy on the page opposite of the one that Peeta painted of Finnick. I flip through the pages of the book, the pictures, the stories that are all captured there. Then I see it. The primrose flower pressed carefully between the pages waiting for my words to accompany it. Peeta must have placed it there. It hurts. But not quite as bad. Or maybe it just doesn’t last so long that it feels like I’m drowning anymore.

I look up and see Peeta watching the tv screen. More Capitol programming. I don’t care if it’s Paylor’s new government, satisfied as I am that Snow and Coin are gone. I just don’t want anything to do with any of them anymore. But I see his jaw clench and he makes a quick glance my way. What is that look for? Then I see it. Gale being interviewed, I have no idea what about, but it looks official.

"You okay?" Peeta asks. Now I understand the concern. The reminder of Prim, maybe of something more. I nod and walk over, and turn off the tv. I sit beside him and I process my thoughts. I was never good at words, so I just lean my head on his shoulder, hoping he will understand.

"We’re going to be okay," he says, but I can hear his voice hitch. I turn my head and gently place my hand on his jaw and pull his face to look at me. Impulsively I lean in and tentatively kiss him. I feel a flood of warmth rush through me. It’s been such a long time. His eyes are closed when I pull away. He gives a deep sigh and smiles slightly. But he opens his eyes and I sense an awkwardness creep in between us.

"I should go," Peeta says as he gets up to leave.

"Please stay. I want you to stay," I answer, hoping my face tells whatever my words don’t. We’ve had this conversation before, he knows the words, but after everything, after all the ambiguity and mixed messages and twisted memories of me, I can see some flicker of doubt. So I decide to speak with a language in which I am more fluent.

I stand up and take his hand and lead him out of the living room, up the stairs and to my room. I pull him into an embrace and his hands instinctively go to either side of my face, when he pulls back, a shudder running through him, and a look of such sorrow and shame is all I see. I grab his hands and place them back at the sides of my neck and kiss him again, deeper than before, letting him know that all this is in the past, that there is no one else whose hands I trust to touch me like this. And with that we are swept away. All the years of longing and comfort and passion and love banish all the fear and regret. There is just us and this moment and this life we choose for ourselves. We hold on to each other with a tender desperation taking for ourselves what the world conspired to deny us.

As Peeta lays me back on the bed and traces soft kisses over my neck, each an apology and a promise, I finally allow myself to let myself go, to feel that hunger and give in to its sweet demands. Hands trace scars, arms and legs entwine, defying the world to pull us apart again. The touches become explorative, we are both new to this. Light and tentative fingers become emboldened as passionate gasps and deep kisses encourage and insist on ever closer contact.

Until finally we are one, clinging to each other as we let go, revelling with amazement at the exquisite connection that binds us to each other. And I know, with clarity in this moment, that life will be good again. Because I have found what I need most, my precious dandelion that reminds me that no matter the losses, the roots run deep and true. I tighten my embrace around his body giving my promise to never let him go.

So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real.” I answer, “Real.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t cover the Epilogue as this was already getting quite long, but I still REALLY need and want to see it in Part 2! Yes to Toastbabies, and if possible, Jennifer Lawrence singing The Meadow Song, and just all-round happy Everlark goodness!


End file.
